We should do this more often.

It usually takes forty five minutes , maybe an hour , to make our way home from the airport. Yesterday , ' the font ' takes a new route . '' It's much more direct ", I'm told with an air of absolute certainty. We turn off the main road and head into the countryside . Two hours and ten minutes later we have passed the grand total of three cars, one white van ( coming in the opposite direction ) eleven dogs ( of various types ) and , bizarrely, one dead cow propped up against the side of a barn. We're lost . I'd thought we lived in deepest France Profonde . Now , thanks to ' the font ' I know there are parts of France that are much more Profonde .

Every hour we stop so that Wilf can be lifted down from the back of the car to ' stretch his legs ' . Our canine companion is in seventh heaven. New scents, new textures, new hints that there's a whole world of dogs out there that he's still to meet . An enthusiastic ' we should do this more often ' look on his face.

Night time at the rickety old farmhouse. Christmas decorations and the last of the family gone. Now just the two of us and our faithful companion. Outside, the stars, the moon, and the old farmers five megawatt star glow peacefully in the sky. Wilf settles down by the front door for a long, long restorative sleep . Old PON's seem to have the simple certainty of knowing " there is no wealth but life ".

Pine needles.

Twelfth night. Time to take down the Christmas tree. Madame Bay suggests we leave it up for another month . A love of twinkling lights something she shares with the old farmer across the lane .

By lunchtime all the decorations are down, wrapped in tissue paper, and stored for next year . The lights put in a special place where they'll be easy to find when needed . Rather than drag the tree through the house Angus pushes it unceremoniously out of an upstairs window. It doesn't go without a fight . Pine needles everywhere . Madame Bay tuts loudly and says they'll block the hoover .

Through it all Wilf sits on the carpet offering encouragement . I don't have the heart to tell him he's facing the wrong way . He spends the rest of his day asleep on the doorstep - far from the sound of Radio Nostalgie, the demonic hoover and its chiffoned disco diva operator.

Two in the morning . Angus wakes up. Pine needles scratching his scalp. Mission Impossible 4 has been showing at the local cinema. I bet Tom Cruise doesn't get pine needles in his scalp.

There's life in this old dog yet .

First insulin injection at six thirty. Second twelve hours later. In between four, small, but regular meals . A mixture of 30% i/d and 70% w/d works a treat. Half a pain killer in the afternoon and a Cortisone tablet every other day .

Morning and afternoon ambles - ten minutes , max, if its wet and arthritis inducing. Half an hour if it's warm and dry . Sometimes a quick doze in the grass by the cows field . An illicit half croissant from the waitress every morning . A taste of human food after every meal - the undoubted highlights of the day . Lot's and lot's of sleep . Reassurance as required, and then some more for good measure. Peals of laughter.

As any old PON will tell you ' the purpose of life is a life of purpose ' . Somehow , against all the odds, there's life in this old dog yet.

Lunch with the English.

To lunch with a retired English baronet and his wife. Our repeated excuses for not going becoming increasingly lame. Duty rather than pleasure . Both of them quite , quite batty. She greets us in the garden wearing mustard yellow plus fours and carrying a shotgun . '' Scaring off the magpies " she says by way of greeting.

'' We'll eat in the kitchen. There's a log on the fire ". Central heating an unheard of luxury . The font gets the chair near the solitary log , Angus shivers by the window. A rationed half glass of dry sherry . A carafe of tap water on the table. Husband lies in bed upstairs suffering from post-Christmas gout. Judging by the temperature in the kitchen it could just as easily have been frost bite. From time to time his voice carries plaintively down the stairs . '' Oh , do shut up you old trout. We're eating ! " periodically hurled playfully back at him by his wife.

Vegan chili con carne. '' You've probably never tasted anything quite like this " says our hostess turning to the font . ' I most certainly haven't ' comes the altogether honest reply . Lady G beams . Another culinary marvel . Through it all Wilf and Winston , the households 13 year old black labrador, lie asleep in the porch. The family fellow gets a long , long walk on our way home .

Aretha Franklin makes the front page.

Into town with Wilf . A cloudy, gunmetal tinted, start to the morning . The little cafe under the arcades open again after the New Year holiday. By the time we get there the beer and absinthe set are already into their second pre-breakfast libation . A chorus of ' Bonjour Wilfee's ' ripples round the tables. The waitress brings Wilf a bowl of water and a half croissant . Angus gets a burnt coffee. The daily routine of an old sheepdog and his owner .

The Paris newspapers have worthy analyses of the Iowa primaries. However, here in deepest France Profonde our local newspaper leads with the news that Aretha Franklin is to get engaged to her long-term friend Mr. William 'Willie' Wilkerson . Miss Franklins latest album, the front page article wrily informs its readers , is entitled ' A Woman Falling Out of Love '. Humour French style.

Ungainly grace.

New Year's morning .We're out early. The grass soft underfoot after yesterdays rain . Small puddles glinting silver in the first light. After a day spent cooped up indoors Wilf skips along. Joy unleashed. No one watching us would believe he was blind, or old, or frail. We turn off the lane and head down the path that leads to the stream . Sometimes I lead . Sometimes follow.

Where the hill and meadow meet a large hare stops , mid-step, to stare at us. Seeing Wilf he rushes off. Tall ears disappearing over the brow of the hill. Ungainly grace. The family fellow lifts his head briefly then carries on nose down through the grass. What he fails to see, I do. The shared world of dog and owner.

Wilf, ever uncomplaining , greets each morning with the enthusiasm humans reserve for the New Year . PON wisdom - '' Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be ". To prove his point there's a bacon baguette waiting when he gets home .

Background music .

Wet . Very wet . One of those days when the Atlantic rain seeps deep into your clothing . Wilf prefers to lie curled up indoors rather than go outside . Reluctantly he joins us for a late afternoon walk along the banks of the stream . '' It'll be good for you " I tell him . He looks unconvinced .

Ten thirty at night . The family fellow decides to turn in . He wanders into the dining room and is soon blissfully asleep in front of the fireplace . From time to time he passes wind . He's been given brussel sprouts with his evening kibbles so these interruptions are both more frequent and more highly pitched than usual . As the old year gives way to the new , the sound of a snoring, trumpeting sheepdog joins the skirl of the pipes and the clink of champagne glasses . The background music of a family house blessed with an old, faithful, friend . Laughter all round .

The mayor proposes a local toast . '' Love works its miracles every day, weakening the strong, strengthening the weak, making fools of the wise, and wise men of fools. Happy New Year ". The old widow finally smiles .